


touch-starved

by rosejelly



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/F, Pining, agent dumb mortain discovers repressed feelings, has book 2 spoilers, i jus want kiss, if you're watching out for that i guess, set after book 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24838939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosejelly/pseuds/rosejelly
Summary: It’s not like Ava is a recluse, not that she shuts herself completely off from others. She’s allowed a few important people into her bubble, allowed them to exist near her.But no one has ever popped that bubble as violently as you have.(ie. indulgent fic about waltzing in your living room with a vampire)
Relationships: Detective/Ava du Mortain, Female Detective/Ava du Mortain
Comments: 19
Kudos: 81





	touch-starved

It’s not like Ava is a recluse, not that she shuts herself completely off from others. She’s allowed a few important people into her bubble, allowed them to exist near her.

But no one has ever popped that bubble as violently as you have. 

Ava never thought she’d long for a single, individual person’s touch like this. It’s not like the others don’t touch her. Nat always squeezes her shoulder reassuringly, Farah clings to her excitedly whenever Ava gives in to her whims, and even Morgan nudges Ava sometimes, always accompanied with a snarky but concerned jib. Their touch is comforting, soothing. 

If Unit Bravo’s touch was a flame, yours was a fireplace. 

The way your hand lingers on her arm, concerned, whenever she pushes you behind her, the brushing of your shoulder against her when you slide by, the tiny, subconscious way you move closer towards her whenever you’re afraid or unsure. 

It triggers Ava’s senses to be on high alert, and lights up every single one of her nerves. She’s always managed to control herself, trying not to let the burn of your fleeting touch linger too much on her skin. But the ill-fated ‘date’ to the carnival splintered that control. 

She can still remember your eyes, gleaming in the colourful glow of the carousel, your soft breath ghosting against her lips, the obvious disappointment in your exhale when the ride grinded to a stop. When she was brought to her knees in the House of Mirrors, the steady pressure of your hand on her neck was a warmth calling her home as her mind raged on in the illusion of her past, reflected in a hundred mirrors. She had turned to press her cheek into your palm, unconsciously seeking you out for comfort. 

Her face burns at the memory. 

Now, she looks down at you as you lean your head on her shoulder, eyes fixed on the sky. Ava admires the colourful burst of fireworks reflected on the soft contours of your face, dancing on your skin in red, blue, and green. She can’t quite bring herself to tangle her fingers in yours like she wants to, but the back of your hand brushing gently against hers is enough to send sparks razing up her arm. 

What is it about your touch? She couldn’t be, _god forbid,_ allergic to humans? She can’t figure out the mystery, and she won’t, even if she’s dying to know. She _is_ dying to know. 

She also knows that once she figures it out, once she lets herself into you, she won’t be able to return unscarred. 

When the fireworks die off and the crowd disperses, Ava startles out of her thoughts when you lift your head from her shoulder. You gaze up at her with a smile.  
  
“That was a pretty good show, huh?”  
  
“It was. It has been a while since I’ve seen fireworks.” Your smile grows a little sly at her answer. 

“Mm. You seemed _so_ enthralled, especially when you weren’t looking up at all.” The teasing lilt to your voice makes Ava’s cheeks heat, but her mouth betrays her before her brain has a chance to think. 

“There was something more enthralling that I preferred to look at.” Ava wants to bite her tongue, take her words back, but she hears your heartbeat skip, and your lips part in surprise. You quickly try to school your expression into something less lovestruck. 

“Some _thing?_ ” Your brow arches, feigning the hurt in your voice even as the corner of your mouth tilts up smugly. “I am not a thing.”  
  
“I’m sure you know what I mean.” Ava clears her throat, discreetly putting a few inches between her and the detective so she could think straight. “I-”  
  
“Hey Ava!” Farah yells from across the carnival, waving her arms wildly like Ava doesn’t have hyper senses. Ava suspects Farah might have dipped her fingers into the cotton candy, and she blames Nat. “We’re going to head back now that the carnival is closing!” 

Ava blinks at that, glancing around. She didn’t even realise that the crowd almost disappeared, leaving just her and the detective standing on near-empty fairgrounds. It was dangerous being near you. It was like all her senses were sucked into a vortex that revolved solely around you. 

Ava shakes it off, raising her hand to give a short wave.  
  
“I shall accompany the detective back home.” Rebecca gives her an appreciative nod, and Ava chooses to focus on that instead of Farah’s bright, knowing grin. She turns to march off before Farah can open her mouth and make her regret her decision.  
  
Once she gets into your tiny car, she immediately regrets her decision. 

You’re too close again, and there’s nothing to do while she hunches up in the seat, fingers tapping on her knee as you start the engine and put the car in reverse. The radio flickers on, much to her displeasure, but she can’t help but sneak glances over at you as you hum along to the song. You can see her looking over, but for the sake of Ava’s pride, you pretend not to notice. 

The ride back ends much too quickly, and by the time Ava walks you back to your door, you find yourself asking, “Do you want to come in for a bit?” 

There’s a painful pause where you can tell she’s carefully considering her words. 

“I doubt that would be wise,” she says, her voice low and guarded. You hate that she’s put her defenses up again. You pull your door open, and try your best at a casual shrug, trying not to scare her off.

“I thought you might want to have a drink to celebrate. I did receive a new bottle of red from some _very_ appreciative residents.” You raise your brows when Ava lifts her head, interested. _Bingo._ “It’s best to finish it all when it’s open, and I can’t do that by myself.”  
  
“If you insist.” Ava’s tone is nonchalant, but she’s already crowding in behind you. You bite down on your lip to stop your laugh from tumbling out.  
  
“Oh, I _insist_.” 

* * *

  
Two glasses later, you’re spread out loosely on the couch, legs tucked under you, head propped up on one arm as you tell Ava about the most ridiculous case you’ve received that day. You can’t tell if it's the liquor muddling your senses, but you swear Ava’s smiling at you over the rim of her glass, green eyes twinkling in the dim light of the only lamp in your living room, turned down low. Your story is pretty funny, but not enough to warrant a gaze like that. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you blurt. A blonde eyebrow arches.  
  
“Like what?” She pulls the glass away from her lips, and you try not to stare at the fogged imprint she leaves on the rim. “Are you policing the way I look at you, detective?” 

“Yes, if you’re going to keep looking at me like that.” You wave a sloppy hand over in her direction. “All soft and smiley and pretty.”  
  
Ava freezes, fingers flexing on the glass, and you instantly fumble for an excuse.  
  
“I mean-”  
  
“You think I’m pretty, detective?” There’s the teasing undertone, accompanied by a bright glint in her eyes whenever she feels like she has the upper hand. You hate it. “You are more drunk than I thought.” 

“...’m not drunk,” you mutter, and she gives a low hum, pretending to agree with you. You swat at her arm angrily, but she doesn’t even budge, just looks down at you with her annoyingly soft gaze. 

There’s a quiet, comfortable silence between you two, and Ava slowly stretches out her legs, crosses them on top of your low coffee table. You try not to gape at the sight. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her in a position that doesn’t scream tense. She tilts her head back slightly, green eyes heavy-lidded, looking almost...content?  
  
“Who are you, and what did you do with Ava du Mortain?” 

Ava frowns, making a low, confused sound.  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed.” Ava gives a scoff, her eyes actually closing, and you take the courage to inch towards her, staring at her incredulously. “The wine must be really good, huh?”  
  
She snorts. “It was one of the worst wines I’ve ever had the displeasure of tasting.” 

“What?” Your head shoots up. “Why did you drink it, then? You could have told me!” 

Ava’s eyes flutter open, sliding over to look at you lazily. She doesn’t even seem fazed by how close you are, now that it’s just the two of you. “It was worth it.” 

Your cheeks flush immediately, even though you try not to think too much about the obvious implication of her words. You clear your throat and reach for your glass, ignoring the way her gaze follows you, slow and hungry, as you take several long gulps. 

Mercifully, she drags her gaze away from you when you busy yourself refilling the glasses. Ava makes a low chuckle as you hesitate over her empty glass. She gestures for you to fill it up anyway. 

Neither of you make a move towards the full glasses. You watch the line where wine meets glass, staining it red. 

It reminds you of something. Of the vision of Ava in the House of Mirrors, splatters of burgundy red staining dented armour and pale skin, of the lost, empty look in her eyes. You flit your eyes over to Ava, who has her hands laced together over her stomach, breathing slow and easy in the quiet of your apartment. The liquor makes your tongue loose, and your words come tumbling out of you, unfiltered. 

“Were you a knight, Ava?” 

The question catches her off guard and her breathing halts. Her face is impassive, but the thick cords of muscle along her neck are tense. 

“Something like that,” she replies, voice hushed and pained. The familiar knot between her eyebrows are showing, and you regret breaking her peace like this. You try to change the subject. 

“Have you ever attended a ball?” Ava’s eyebrows shoot up. “Do you know how to do a fancy dance? A waltz?”  
  
“Do I know how to-” she cuts herself off, looking highly offended. You’re secretly relieved to see the tension from before bleed out of her expression. “I am a du Mortain.”  
  
“That means nothing to me,” you snark, and she glares down at you. You give her a bright, tipsy grin. “Can you teach me how to waltz?”  
  
“And why should I do that?”  
  
“You can’t?” You put your hand over your mouth, feigning shock. “Guess I did find something Ava du Mortain can’t do…”  
  
“Stand up.” Ava’s up from the couch before you even finish your sentence, moving the full glasses to the kitchen counter. She bends over and lifts the heavy coffee table in one hand, laying it against the wall to make space. Your eyes linger on the bulge of her bicep, straining under the sleeves of her shirt as she moves your furniture around easily, like they’re toys. You gulp when she turns to tower over you, arms crossed and one eyebrow arched, like she’s wondering why you’re not obeying her command. 

You bite down an amused laugh, knowing it’ll poke the bear more than anything. “You’re so easily provoked, Ava.”  
  
“I prefer not to be underestimated.” She offers you a hand, and you stare at it before gingerly getting up from the couch like she asked, brushing your clothes down.  
  
When you slide your fingers into her large, calloused palm, you bite down on the inside of your cheek at the shivers that run up your arm. She pulls you into the middle of the living room, and lifts your hand to place it firmly on her broad shoulder. Her other hand settles at the small of your back, guiding your stumbling feet closer. From here, it feels like she’s surrounding you, her woodsy scent flooding your senses and enveloping you. Your fingers twitch uselessly on her shoulder, feeling the muscle beneath, warm and unyielding. 

“...teach you the basics. Your left leg goes backwards, and I’ll go forwards.” Ava’s voice filters slowly into your muddled brain, and you blink up at her, eyes wide. She sighs when she notices your dazed expression. 

“Are you listening to me?” You nod quickly, and Ava looks skeptical. “Alright. Follow the three count step like I said. One-”  
  
You’re not expecting Ava to push forward immediately, and you trip backwards, almost crashing into the ground if not for Ava’s palm supporting your back, holding you close to her chest. 

“Take a step _back_ at one,” she admonishes you, and your face burns at her close proximity. “You weren’t listening to me after all.” She sets you upright, head tilting down, trying to catch your gaze. You turn your face away, just knowing you’re the shade of a very overripe tomato. 

“Are you alright, detective?” Her voice is quiet and concerned, and it ignites something inside you that it shouldn’t.  
  
“I’m okay,” you breathe, looking up at her to meet her gaze. She’s closer than you think, so close that you can see the pupils in her eyes dilate, the soft jade of her irises darkening into lush, ivy green. 

“Shall we try again?” Her own voice sounds almost as breathless as yours, and it’s all you can do to nod, mouth dry. You can’t tell if your head is spinning from the wine or from Ava. Is it too late to take a break for water? 

This time, you try to focus on Ava’s instructions, following the slow, steady beat of her counting: _one two three, one two three, one two three._ The carpet beneath your feet spins, and the two of you are gliding across the floor, Ava’s strong hands holding you steady, guiding you firmly but ever so gently. It feels like you’re flying in her arms, trapped in the intensity of her unwavering gaze and careful steps. Somehow, she never lets you bump into the sharp edges of the walls or the counters, and it feels like the tiny space in your apartment is limitless. 

When your hand drifts up from her shoulder to the elegant column of her neck, tracing the sharp outline of her jaw, she slows you both down, the spinning coming to a stop. You think she’s going to pull away or reach up to pull your hand away, but she does nothing of the sort. You work up the courage to brush your thumb gently against her cheek, and her eyes snap shut like she’s pained, a low sound rumbling from her throat. 

“What are you up to now, detective?” she murmurs. “This isn’t part of the waltz.”  
  
“It isn’t?” you ask innocently, and Ava’s body is so tense, coiled up under your touch, that it feels like she might shatter if you press forward just a little harder.  
  
“Are you still drunk, perhaps?”  
  
“No.” You don’t think you’ve ever experienced that kind of high when you were spinning across a carpet with her. 

She lets out what sounds like a choked-off whine when your fingers drift down, brushing along her jaw and trailing down her neck. Your hand is grabbed immediately, trapped in a tight grip.  
  
“Enough.” Her voice is breathless and raspy, even though you’ve only been dancing for two minutes.  
  
“Sorry,” you whisper, though you’re not sorry at all. “I’ll keep my hands to myself if you want me to.”  
  
Ava looks less than pleased at the thought, even though she’s the one who asked to stop. 

“I don’t want you to. I’m afraid…” She clears her throat, swallows the swell of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She loosens her grip on your fingers, turns them over gently, and brushes her lips over your knuckles, so gently you can only feel the heat of her breath skimming across them. “I’m afraid _I_ can’t take my hands off you.” 

You feel like you’re in a wine-induced daydream, trapped in Ava’s vulnerable, hungry gaze. Her quiet confession roars in your mind. It takes you a long minute for you to gather your thoughts until Ava releases your hand slowly, reluctantly, retreating back into her shell. You quickly snap out of it. 

“Then don’t.” You take a step forward, and she almost stumbles backwards comically. “I won’t break, Ava. I’m not afraid of you.” 

“You should be.” She’s the one who looks most afraid, backing up with every small step you take towards her, even though she towers over you. When her back hits the wall, her fingers are flat against it, looking for all in the world like a cornered lioness. A paradox. 

“I’m not,” you repeat, pressing the length of your body against hers. She lets out a full-bodied groan this time, especially when you perch on your tip-toes so you can cradle her jaw in both your hands and pull her down towards you. She nuzzles into your palm even as she frowns, her own hands coming up to envelop yours, pressing your hands closer to her.  
  
“What are you doing to me, little one?” Ava whispers hoarsely, but she turns her head, trailing her lips hungrily over the inside of your wrist, heat searing across your pulse point. She pulls you in by your arms, and you loop them automatically around her neck. There’s only a breath between you and her, but she’s standing still, refusing to close the gap. She looks like a woman standing on the edge of a cliff, afraid to take the plunge. 

You do it for her. 

Your kiss is gentle, soft and chaste, feet arching as you reach up as high as you can, pressing up into her. Her lips part under yours, almost instinctively, melding against you. When you pull away from Ava, a growl erupts from her, uncontrolled, making you jump. She chases your lips immediately, grumbling when you arch away and press a finger to her lips. You can’t help the soft giggle that escapes at her pouty frown, even though she could probably overpower you in a second. But she waits, mouthing impatiently at your finger, her hands kneading urgently into your waist.  
  
“Are you going to kiss me like you mean it, Ava?” Piercing green eyes flicker up to stare through you. “Or are you still afraid?” 

She growls at your words, and you can feel it vibrating against your finger. Her hands slide down, and you can feel her blunt nails dragging along the back of your thighs as she lifts you so quickly your head’s spinning again.  
  
Before you know it, you’re pressed into the wall, breath stolen by Ava’s kiss, chest heaving against hers. Your feet dangle uselessly in the air, toes curling as Ava gently deepens the kiss, expertly tugging at your bottom lip so your lips would part and let her in. She tastes of cheap wine overpowered by a musky sweetness, a taste that’s uniquely her. 

She takes her time to kiss you until you’re begging for breath, pushing at her broad shoulders. You think she could probably do it all night, pinning you against the wall and holding you up in her arms. She breaks away quickly, looking dazed but full of concern as you gasp for air, your head hitting the wall gently.  
  
“Need to breathe,” you explain, and when her face crumples in guilt, you flick her forehead. “Stop that.” 

She peels away from the wall and walks over to the couch, still holding you in her arms. Your legs wrap around her waist, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach at her show of strength. You’ve seen her literally lift a giant tree, why were you still surprised?  
  
Ava carefully sits down on the couch, clutching her precious cargo to her chest. You end up straddling her lap, her hands settling safely on your hips. You lift your hand to smooth back the blonde hairs that have escaped from her tight bun, scratching gently against her scalp, and she melts under your touch, sinking deeply into the couch and taking you with her. 

“You’re like a cat,” you chuckle. Her green eyes are soft and hazy as she takes you in, pale skin flushed and a tiny smile sitting at the corner of her lips. She looks drunk, even though you know the wine didn’t affect her one bit. What was this expression, then? Kiss-drunk? 

“Meow,” Ava replies bluntly, in such a deadpan tone that you gape at her, mouth open. 

You burst into such rambunctious laughter that Ava almost loses her grip on you, tumbling over on her lap. You clutch at your stomach, wheezing so loudly that she looks slightly concerned, but she can’t hide her proud grin at how she’s made you laugh. 

“Ow,” you whine as your ribs start to ache. Your eyes are watering, and Ava wipes the tears off your cheek with a tenderness that makes you blink. 

You lean forward to kiss her flushed, wine-stained lips, and she sighs into your kiss with a kind of contentment that makes your chest ache. She explores your softness, large hands sliding over your thighs, squeezing them greedily and eating up the whine that escapes you. 

You break the kiss, and Ava looks at you beseechingly, the smooth jade in her eyes almost swallowed by inky black.

 _“Another,”_ she begs, and you can’t help but obey. 

She hasn’t figured out what it is about your touch, but with every kiss, she’s starting to. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is for all the A players who are touch starved themselves but stay loyal to A....why are we doing this to ourselves
> 
> we write the fics we want to read ( U n U ) 
> 
> thank you for reading! comments are very appreciated <3  
> or you can come yell at me on tumblr @rosejellyy bc i need more friends to gush w me about twc


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